Kick out the jams

Twenty-seven years and three days ago, we devise a plan for the next time we feel taken for granted, not imagining just how soon that would be. And then we arrive at the Blind Pig in Ann Arbor, where we are to open for Volcano Suns for the second consecutive night, to discover that–as was always threatened on Mission: Impossible–the club has disavowed any knowledge of us. I’m not sure they ever concede having booked us (we definitely don’t appear on any posters or in any listings), but eventually it’s understood that we will perform (and maybe get paid). Our response is to take the medley of “A House Is Not a Motel” and “The Evil That Men Do” that frequently comprised the last 10 or so minutes of our set and extend it and then extend it some more. It’s practically all we do (save for segueing into “Lewis” for the final three minutes). All the shitty feelings we’d had all day–driving for hours to beg some person to honor their deal and maybe sell you a half-price beer–disappeared. We felt in control, and even got brought back for an encore. Some time later Peter Buck showed up and told us that when he called the club to ask who was playing, there was no mention of us. To be fair, based on subsequent visits to Ann Arbor, when Joe Puleo was known to answer the house phone after umpteen rings (“Pig.”), it’s possible that it was Jeff Weigand who kept our appearance under wraps.